


Frost

by lovelyelladear



Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Character Death, Choking, Death, Domestic Violence, Gen, Graphic Description, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Torture, Murder, Murder Family, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 10:08:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20833694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelyelladear/pseuds/lovelyelladear
Summary: Ophelia had no real reason to do it besides the fact she wanted too. There was something inside of her that craved the relief of him being gone from her life. He had never done anything specifically to hurt her but yet she wanted him dead. So be it.This is a dark story with dark themes. This is the story of my original character and the thrill she got from murdering her father. The story does describe the death of someone by the hands of another. The mind of Ophelia is a sick and twisted one and some of the thoughts depicted she has can be disturbing to people. She is disturbed and corrupted and NOT a good person. If you are uncomfortable with death, violence, talk of someone wanting to die and acting on it then do not read this.





	Frost

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, this is a dark story with dark themes. If you do not want to read about the murder of someone then please click out of this story now.

The snow had been gathering on the landscape outside the window for some time now. Fat, fluffy snowflakes settled and made a home on the branches of trees and the blades of grass. What was once a dry world was now covered in a blanket in white. It was cliche. Like one of those holiday popcorn tins with a winter scene printed onto the metal sides. There were no prints left in the snow yet. The covering was completely flat and unharmed. It was a peaceful scene. Calm. 

Among that white world, there was a home. An ordinary-looking home like any other. Lights on throughout the house, a fire in the fireplace, music playing from the speaker in the living room. But the music playing did not do much to help cover the sounds of a struggle coming from the man under Ophelia’s weight. 

It was something Ophelia had been fantasizing about for months now. She was 18 as of that day. She was able to make it on her own and not be owned by her brother. Now was the perfect time to pull it off. Strangulation wasn’t her first method of choice. She dreamed of all the possible ways. She debated firing a bullet through his skull, watching him bleed on the carpet, but she didn’t want to clean the mess. She considered buying rat poison and slipping it into his breakfast, but she feared for the possibility of it not fully working. Eventually, she thought of this. The idea of getting to watch him die, up close and personal, by her own hand was oddly intimate. And if it wouldn’t have been her own father, perhaps even arousing. 

Ophelia’s eyes went to the clock on the table under the window. How long had she been forcing her hands around his neck? She couldn’t even remember what time this all began. The window behind the clock was foggy, frost creeping up the outside like vines reaching for the sun. This birthday was colder than others in the past. Maybe that’s what made it the perfect setting for such a cold-blooded murder. 

He had struggled under her body. His nails had made several scratches to her arms and torso, some even were bleeding and ruining the beautiful scaring she had littering her arms. This was starting to become more of a chore than she was first anticipating when she decided to kill him. His face had to start to tint blue. Ophelia wished she was a painter just for a moment so she could mix paint to match that exact shade to paint on her bedroom walls. His eyes were draining life. She loved the rush that her body got as she watched his eyes close as his life slipped from him under her weight. 

Snow is often used as a symbol of death and sadness. The chill of the crisp air stinging people’s noses and hearts while their family went through troubles. It was ironic, really, considering the death happening at her own hand was drawing the opposite emotions from her soul. Ophelia could only remember one other time when she felt such joy being sparked from her. When she read her first poem. 

Her mother kept a collection of poetry in their living room, a whole shelf of anthologies available at her fingertips. Robert Frost was her first exposure. As a young girl, she didn’t fully understand the meanings behind his typed words, but her soul was moved and she yearned to learn more. That moment felt as good as it did to hear her fathers struggling stopped. 

He had stopped moving altogether. The struggle for air had ceased. And he was just, still. Ophelia drew her hands back from his neck slowly, hesitant in case he moved again. Nothing. She leaned down, her ear hoving over his lips to listen for breath while two fingers came to his neck to press against his pulse. Silence. She had done it. A laugh bubbled from Ophelia’s throat as she sat up and clapped her hands together. Her first kill, a success. 


End file.
